Sleep
by Forged Obsidian
Summary: The five times Thorin woke up, and the one time he didn't.
1. Erebor Before

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_Erebor_

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Without bothering to light the candles, Thorin dragged himself into his rooms, feet dragging and arms held limply at his sides. He slipped off his blue coat and let it fall to the ground, the fabric folding and twisting as it got caught momentarily on his large hands. With a practiced flick of his feet he managed to throw off his boots. He simply didn't have the energy to bother with anything else.

Grandfather hadn't left the treasury vault all day, and Thorin doubted that his king had gone to his own chambers and wife since yesterday. Thorin's own father had been called down into the deep mines of the mountain to see to some quarrel or another. That had left Thorin alone with the visiting dignitaries. While nothing too stressful had been discussed, much of the talk had been of tedious subjects that everyone wanted to avoid, and as such they were the worst topics to go over. It would take more time than the young dwarf prince had to count the number of times he had wanted to stand up and yell until everyone was forced to listen to him.

Strangely, none of his anger could be directed toward the elves.

Thranduil,as the trade talks involved the road through Greenwood, was present, though not prominently. While Thorin, as well as most any other dwarf, was not overly fond of elves, in this case the strange peace their race possessed was a calming presence throughout the heated talks. And when the _feeling_ alone was not enough to calm the yelling and chest pounding, when Thorin felt most that everything was going out of his control, the strange elven king would simply look at him and give him a small nod.

_You are in charge here_, the motion seemed to say. _Your father trusts you, and so do I._

The one time the yelling had been near deafening the elf had the self control to look at the young dwarf with a singular eyebrow raised, and a small eye roll. Thorin, who really was not used to the intense court life, had to stifle a chuckle at the strange look on Thranduil's face. Always before the presence of his father had been enough to keep the talks at least somewhat civil, if no more productive. Without him, and with Thorin having learned little of the position of a solo royal in court, the lords and keepers argued to their heart's content.

And that had only been the first half of the day.

The rest had been spent running around Erebor, making connections and arguing points that the council had been pushing forward that needed the input of merchants and craftsmen. The end of the day had seen much less physical exertion, though in many ways it was the worst part. Thorin had taken a plate of food - simple things such as cheese and bread - to the treasury, in an attempt to get his king to take a meal. It had been as if Grandfather hadn't seen him at all. He had simply knelt at the edge of a gold pile, running coins and gems through his fingers. Thorin had talked to him, told him that they needed him back, that the young prince missed the laugh, the strength, the look on his Grandfather's face when the old king picked up his younger sister, Dís, and swung her around.

In the end Thorin left the plate in the treasury, next to Grandfather's knee. He held no hope for it to be empty when it was retrieved in the morning.

The pillow felt blessedly soft, the blanket just heavy enough to hold him together. Another day like this one may tear him apart. He didn't even bother to turn out the candles before letting his eye lids scrape closed over his eyes.

The next thing he knew a small presence was next to him, shaking his shoulder and breathing in his ear, "Thorinthorinthorinthorinthorinthorin . . . "

"Hnnnn?" The young prince raised his head to see his brother on the edge of his bed, one hand curled around the shirt of his older brother, the other gripping his younger sister. "Wha . . . "

"You really should remember to blow out the candles, brother. Otherwise your room would burn down and mother would have to give you Dís's old crib to sleep in," the dwarfling chattered. Dís, rather than being sleepy eyed as Thorin had expected her to be, was wide eyed and climbing up onto the bed next to her golden haired brother. Their braids had been undone before they had been sent to their own beds, and had tangled and snarled themselves into lumps that bulged our of the sides of their small heads.

Raising a hand to rub at his eyes, Thorin sighed and scooted over to make room. "Why are you two here?"

"'Cuz my bed is to small and Dís wouldn't stop moving around. 'Sides, 's more fun to sleep with you." Thorin grunted and grabbed at his sister, placing her on his other side. She burrowed into the blankets, then with a devilish grin, shoved her cold feet against what little bare stomach was peeking through Thorin's shirt.

A very un-princely garble escaped him before he could control himself. Shoving her now-warm feet away, Thorin twisted to look at his sister and said, in the most threateningly way possible, that she was to _settle down or she could sleep on the floor, thank you very much._

Dís simply giggled and pulled the blankets up over her head.

Looking to his other side, Thorin saw Frerin had dragged the blankets down so that he could curl up against the thigh of his older brother. The dwarfling was already asleep, one hand thrown out to the side to dangle over the edge of the bed. Thorin sighed, and pulled his brother closer. He could feel Dís settling beside him, her breathing lengthening and becoming deeper. He glanced at the candles.

It could not have been that long since he first fell into bed. The candles still had enough wick and wax left to burn for some time yet. However, how on earth could he possibly blow them out? He had been expertly trapped by two young dwarflings, one of which had even mentioned blowing them out but had not bothered to do so.

Thorin smiled, grunted, and lay back down to sleep, shifting as little as possible so as not to wake his siblings.

Even if the improbable happened and his _stone_ rooms caught fire, he could always make Frerin sleep in the crib.

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**_Hark! For I have attempted humor!_**

**_This is really part 1/6, with the other bits to come soon. This is something that popped into my head. I think a few of you may be able to guess how this little series will end._**

**_Thank you for taking the time to read my work, as always._**

**_While I am in no stretch of the mind a dwarven expert - enthusiast may be a better word - it seemed to me that Thorin didn't mind Thranduil, and was confused when Thráin didn't give the white gems to the elven king. He truely did think that Thranduil was going to help his people in the aftermath of Smaug, and that requires trust. _**


	2. The Road

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_The Road_

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Frerin couldn't sleep.

Oh, the ground was hard enough, the stone was quiet, there was no harsh weather outside. But still, the young dwarf tossed and turned and twisted, and still the mistress of sleep eluded him.

Ever since the dragon had taken the mountain, Frerin, his family, and his people had taken to wandering in the summer months, and this year was no different. They had been unable to find a suitable home for several years, now, and Frerin was somewhat certain that he had completely forgotten what living inside a mountain _felt_ like.

Still, that didn't explain why he couldn't sleep.

Thorin was next to him, laying on his stomach with his head tucked into an arm. He had spent the day working in a mannish forge, from sun up to sunset with little rest. He could sleep just fine, though Frerin knew his brother's muscles must be screaming. He himself had barely begun his forge training, and even pounding out a horseshoe made his hands burn and shoulders ache. Dís was on the other side of Thorin, curled up in the same position she always slept in. She was contentedly snoring the night away.

Frerin sighed, twisted, and stared at the cloth canvas above his head as he drummed his fingers on his chest. How long he did this he did not know. It did feel like forever, at least to his mind.

Giving in to the temptation to wake his brother, he turned and gently rapped his knuckles on the back of Thorin's head.

_"Hey."_

No response. Frerin sighed and rolled back over. Then, getting an idea, he dug around in the dirt beside his cot. His fingers met a small round stone. This he pried loose and held firmly in his hand. Frerin began to clink Thorin's head with the stone, with increasing intensity when there was no response. Really, how hard was his brother's head? It was a wonder that Mother could teach him anything at all.

"Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey."

Thorin swiped groggily at the back of his head. "Whadddaa . . ."

"Finally. I think you could sleep through a hurricane, brother."

Thorin groaned and dragged a blanket up over his head. "What do you want?"

Frerin grinned. "Well, you see, you and Dwalin were able to be in the forge all day. I was stuck in class with Balin; not the most stimulating environment sometimes."

Thorin pulled the blankets off of his head. "Your point?"

"I can't sleep." Thorin's head flopped down onto his crossed arms, and he mumbled, "What do you want me to do about it?"

". . . could you tell me about working? In the forge, I mean."

His older brother sighed, shoulders rising and falling with a great heaving motion. "Fine. But only if you promise to leave me be afterward."

Frerin nodded enthusiastically.

Thorin talked, then. Others had often told him that he had a voice made for _using_, whether it be singing, storytelling, or giving orders. He didn't sing often, and more often than not he was the one receiving commands from his Father or Grandfather. Storytelling, though. That he didn't mind so much.

"Well, today I saw the strangest thing. It seems that human metal smiths use horrendously light hammers. Dwalin being Dwalin, he thought that the tools were of the weight we are accustomed to. He drew the hammer back so hard, it flew out of his grasp and into the street. The smith, of course, was less than pleased . . . "

Frerin listened to his brother speak, the deep tones rumbling in his ears and soothing his thoughts. Before long his eyelids were drooping, and Frerin nodded off. Thorin didn't notice, and kept speaking for some time.

When he noticed that Frerin had stopped twitching around, Thorin raised himself onto his elbows and looked at his brother. His golden hair was tangled, the braids bulged in odd places. His mouth had fallen open, but he was not snoring. Yellow stubble lined his face. It was the beginnings of a proper beard. Thorin wondered if Frerin would keep it short, like him, or grow it out. The blanked had fallen from his brother's shoulders, pushed down past his waist. Thorin reached down and pulled it up to his shoulders.

With that, the young prince promptly rolled onto his stomach, buried his face in his arms, and fell asleep.

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_**Well, here is the next bit.**_

_**I honestly don't know how to feel about this part. I think I work better with 'sad' stuff, rather than the 'calm before the storm' type situations. Then again, it may be only me who feels this way.**_

_**So, yeah. I like Frerin. Not only is there little information on him - which leaves his story open for anyone to tell - but I really do think that he played a large part in Thorin's life. **_

_**I am going to move onto the next part soon, as soon as I am able to figure out how to post actual chapters. I am horribly technology - challenged.**_

_**Hope you all enjoyed it! When I saw how many people were interested, I was surprised! Thanks!**_


	3. Dreams of Death

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_Dreams of Death_

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Thorin thrashed in his sleep, tangling the blankets and shoving his pillow off the cot. His dreams were of smoke, and death, fire and beheaded kings far away from home. Sweat dripped down his forehead and pooled around his eyes, before being shaken off or smeared across his face by twitching arms. His breathing was heavy and uneven, wheezing past clenched teeth.

Dís watched from the corner of the tent, her eyes brimmed with tears. It had been like this for a while. It had started a few weeks after . . . well, after everything became broken and burnt. Grandfather was dead and burned. Frerin - dear, sweet, golden Frerin - was dead, and burned. Father had gone silent, then wandered away into the wilds. No one had tried to stop him. Thorin, at the beginning, had simply not slept; the struggle of holding a bandaged and broken people together was enough of a struggle that he had been running on fake adrenaline for days. When he had found time to rest, it was deep and _useless_. He would always look worse after.

The the dreams started.

Dís had not been involved in the battle, but she was stationed in the medical tents. She had seen the results of the battle, and that alone was enough to give her nightmares. Thorin had always been there when they happened, pulling her into his strong, bandaged arms and soothing her with song. His voice had cracked often, but she hadn't really minded. Before long, when she saw fellow dwarves who she had helped getting back on their feet, the dreams had faded and were a less common occurrence.

Thorin, when he dreamed, became a stranger. His voice, when he called out in Khuzdul, was broken, raspy. His strong, scarred hands grasped and pulled in desperate motions. Unfortunately, his dreams were common. The dark circles under his eyes stood testament to the many nights he had simply forgone sleep in favor of making rounds in the camp.

And perhaps the worst part, at least from her perspective, was the fact that she didn't know how to help him. Thorin had always been there for her, holding her while she cried, talking to fill the horrible silence when tears did not do the dream justice. Dís did not know how to wake him. She had tried once before, but his twitching arms had been to difficult to hold at bay. She had ended up with a bruise on her brow, and had to tell Thorin that she had not been watching where she was going before she hit a branch.

"**Nadad** . . . " Thorin twitched, nearly sending himself over the edge of the cot. Dís jerked, moving a step closer to her brother. She had heard about how Frerin died, that he had been torn from shoulder to hip. She had trouble imagining it, but she decided that she didn't want that image to haunt her thoughts. Thorin had been the one to find him. Frerin had still been breathing, but by the time any healers or Balin or Dwalin had made their way over corpses and around blood pools, her brother had been dead. It was days before Thorin had allowed himself to be treated.

"Thorin . . . " she breathed quietly, trying to wake him without going to close. She called out a little louder soon afterward, when it seemed that her words were not reaching him. Then, getting an idea, she stepped behind where his head lay. She waited until his movements became less strong and frequent, then darted forward. She quickly clasped his head on either side and laid her forehead on his own.

"**Nadad, **brother, please wake."

While Thorin had initially started to thrash at her touch, he quieted at her words. Another jerk and he woke up, his eyes a strange, feverish blue. It took him a moment to focus. Then, his eyes twitched, and slid up to meet hers.

" . . . Dís?"

She nodded, and with watery relief in her voice, said "Yes, brother, I am here."

They simply watched each other for a few moments. Then, moving slowly, Dís walked around the edge of the cot and slid under the covers with her brother. Thorin sluggishly moved over to the side, and turned his back to his sister. His shoulders began to shake, and Dís could see his hands move up to clench his biceps.

Without saying a word, she scooted over to her brother and threw her arms around him, scooting her arm under his quivering body. She held him as he silently wept, making quiet "Hush, easy" suggestions deep in the back of her throat. She rubbed her forehead against the base of his bent neck, smoothing out the taunt muscle. Eventually Thorin stopped quivering, and lay limp and exhausted in her arms.

" . . . sister?" His voice was thick, now, empty perhaps, but not as broken.

Dís gave him a little squeeze. "Hmm?"

"Thank you."

She smiled. "Just sleep now, brother. I am here. I'm not going anywhere."

It took a few minutes, but soon Thorin was relaxed and spent, sleeping deeply. Dís pulled her arm out from under her brother and used it as a pillow for her head. She left her other arm laying over his body, clasping his shirt. Soon she slept as well.

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_**Yay! Sad stuff!**_

_**Guess who found a Khuzdul dictionary?!**_

_**I am really happy with this chapter, actually. This marks the halfway point for this story. Mega-huge thanks for reviewers and readers. It gives me strength and motivation to keep going when I see people reading my work! Thank you!**_

_**Next installment coming soon. It will involve another pair of dwarven brothers. And snow. Lots of snow.**_


	4. Snow

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_Snow_

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The two young dwarves tiptoed down the hallway, being careful of the one creaky board in the center. The oldest - golden hair mussed and frizzy - led the younger by the hand, pulling his brother along. Then, they came to a closed door. Reaching up to pick at the latch, the taller boy flicked his fingers and the door swung in with nary a creak. Dwarves couldn't stand noisy hinges.

Exaggerating their movements in an attempt to be quieter, the pair slipped into the room. A bed was pushed into the far corner, with a desk on the opposite wall. The bed was coated in blankets, and moved slowly as the sleeping dwarf beneath breathed and snored. The two dwarflings crept up to the edge of the bed, and tried to shift onto the bed. The pair had learned long ago that startling their uncle from his sleep rarely ended well. It had only happened once, and Thorin had jackknifed up out of bed with a dagger in his hand. Their mother had taken the shaken brothers aside, and explained that their uncle REALLY didn't like being startled.

However, without the momentum gained by running and then jumping onto the bed, they couldn't quite reach the edge. Then, Fíli got an idea. He gestured to his brother, and leaned over, patting his own back. It took Kíli a moment to understand. Then, with a gap-toothed grin, he stumbled over and climbed atop Fíli's shoulders. The older dwarf made his precarious way over to the head of the bed, where he could just barely see Thorin, his forehead crinkled in sleep.

Kíli reached out and curled his hand around one of his uncle's braids, the small silver clasp resting in his small palm. A few quick tugs and Thorin dragged himself from sleep. One had to wake soon when the ones doing the waking were his two nephews, or your person risked being vandalized with ink, having a small army arranged right on the floor where you put your feet, and other such things. Thorin had learned this quickly.

The king-in-exile lifted his head, and blew stray strands of hair away from his face. Another tug pulled his head to where Kíli's brown eyes were peeking over the edge of his bed. A large hand moved to pat the young dwarf on the head and smooth brown hair away from the child's forehead.

"What is it, little one?"

Kíli only giggled, and disappeared past Thorin's sight. He heard the patter of small feet leaving his room, small giggles identifying both his nephews. Thorin sighed, and threw the blankets off. Following his nephews, he traced their whispers and_ shh we need to let him find us_ to the entryway of their home. Cloaks were hung on brass knobs, just behind the stout wooden door. He could see dwarfling feet just under a strange bulge in his personal cloak. Holding back a chuckle, Thorin moved quietly over to the hiding pair, slowly slipped his cloak free from the knob, and quickly wrapped his nephews in the sturdy material and swung them up into his arms.

The brothers yelped and started to giggle and hoot, squirming around in an attempt to escape the cloak. Thorin chuckled, and lowered the bundle to the floor. Kíli fell out first, rolling off of his brother to the wooden floor. Fíli was left sitting in the tangled cloth. The older dwarf kneeled down to face level with his nephews.

"What is it?"

In answer they both raced to another room, filled with a strange type of energy. Thorin grunted as he stood; it was the beginning of perhaps another snow-less winter, and the cold made his back and shoulders hurt. He followed the dwarflings to the other room, the kitchen, and found that they had dragged a chair over to the window. The two brothers were both standing on it, peering over the back of the chair to the outside where Thorin could see the stars.

Then, to his astonishment, a fat white flake of snow drifted past the window.

"It started snowing, uncle!"

Thorin looked down at his nephews, their brown eyes wide with wonder. The winters that the could remember were gentle, at least where snow was concerned. The air had still been cold, though. Cold enough that sickness had managed to flourish. It had claimed the boy's father the past year.

A tug on his sleeve pulled him back to the present. Fíli was looking at him, eyes sparkling. "Can we go outside and see it, Thorin?"

The dwarf smirked, a grin pulling up the edges of his mouth. "Wait here a moment."

Thorin walked back to his room, grabbing the thick blanket from the bed. Striding back to the waiting pair, he jerked his head toward the door. The two laughed and dashed for the handle; it took both of them to move it open. By the time Thorin got outside, they were both rolling in the snow. The king-in-exile just settled on the steps of the small porch. The house rested on small stilts, to help avoid flooding during the warm spring season when the snow melted.

Before long Fíli and Kíli were cold, the snow clinging to their knees and between their toes. Thorin gave a one-sided grin. "Come here, you two."

They dashed over to him, starting to shiver. They each came and sat on one of his knees, curling their toes against his shin. Thorin took the blanket and wrapped around all three of them, leaving their heads free to look at the land around them.

It was snowing slightly, the thick flakes sticking to white branches and the edge of their roof. It had been silently snowing for some time, apparently. The land around was white, the rolls and dips in the land were muted. The sky was gray, thick with bulging clouds. A good winter lay ahead, then. Such deep snow so early meant good water come spring, enough to water crops and push needed minerals down into the lakes and streams for forging.

It was also quiet. This wasn't the quiet before battle, when you shouldn't eat because your stomach would only push it back up. The silence after storms was crisp, and wet. This quiet was thick, covering the whole world and muting sound and movement.

It was . . . nice.

Before long both his nephews had warmed up, and were small pockets of heat at Thorin's side. They had also fallen asleep, their heads resting against his chest, propped on each other's head. Thorin just cradled them closer, relishing the contact that he often denied himself. He didn't think of himself as a good uncle, and was hardly worthy to become the father that both these lads needed. He knew he was grumpy, prone to moods, and far to angry to be around dwarflings. He held most of his emotions inside, and they left in a violent way - usually. Mahal knew that Dís had put up with him far too many times to be possibly counted.

But, maybe, if he tried and gave it his all, he would be someone that these two came for when something went wrong. Even later, when they were both grown, and making their own choices and mistakes, he could be there for them. If he tried, then maybe everything would be alright.

For the rest of that night, Thorin held his sleeping nephews and watched snow fall. And for the first time in a long while, he was at peace.

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_**HAHA! UPDATE!**_

_**No, seriously, sorry readers. I feel like it has been a while since I worked with this, even though it's only been about a week. I just feel like with the chapters as short as they seem to be, I should be able to crank them out pretty quickly. But I have an excuse. School started again Monday (for me, at least) and with it came the apathy that seems to surround most anything concerning school.**_

_**So I have this headcannon that dwarves invented glass (and pianos, but that is for a later thing), so TADA! windows were born.**_

_**I live in a place where snow is a really good thing. Coming from a farming community, I can tell people that there are many different types of snow. The best is this thick, fat, fluffy stuff that sticks to everything. If the snow comes early, it can actually stick to leaves and break branches from trees. The least usefull type of snow is called 'skif,' at least where i come from. That is basically little round things of ice that don't stick to anything and end up being blown away.**_

_**Two more chapters to go, guys.**_


	5. Dreamless Hope

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_Dreamless Hope_

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Everything ached.

Climbing down from the Carrok had been strange. Thorin felt hope for the first time in a while, being able to see the Lonely Mountain on the horizon. However once it was out of sight, various aches and pains promptly made themselves known. He had simply gone on, hefting himself down the face of the giant rock with skinned and bleeding hands. His Company had gone through the same sleepless night, capture, and resulting escape the same as him. And while Bilbo was looking pale and was being watched closely by Bofur, they were all making good time in reaching the ground.

However, only a few steps away from the pillar saw Thorin down on one knee, cracked ribs and taunt muscles finally having their say in what the dwarf was attempting to do. He could hear his Company coming down the Carrok behind him, some coming over to his side. He was dimly aware of Dori catching Bilbo as the hobbit slid down the last few feet to the ground. Thorin felt a large hand on his shoulder, and turned his head to look up at Dwalin.

"Come 'ere." The large dwarf pulled Thorin up by his arms, and half-steered half-carried his king to a nearby rock. Thorin sat heavily, ignoring the twang his spine shot up into his skull. Perhaps he had been shaken harder than he thought.

He was dimly aware of Nori, Bifur, and Gloin Going into the nearby forest, saying something about finding food. Balin waved them away, and turned to Óin, gesturing vaguely at Thorin and Dwalin. Bilbo was being dragged over to the pair of elder dwarves, a determined Bofur striding before him. Ori had simply plopped down and fallen asleep, resting his back against the Carrok. Dori and Bombur were starting a small fire, near to where Ori was sleeping. It was day, perhaps midday now, and they had no fear for a flame to attract attention.

Before long Óin came over to where Thorin was resting, hanging the crumpled ear trumpet on his belt. The old dwarf gestured to Dwalin, and said in a loud voice "Get the coat and shirt off of him, he'll need the help, king or no."

The tall dwarf nodded, and moved to assist Thorin in removing his coat. That was the easy part. The armor shirt was heavy, and Thorin felt relieved when the weight was taken away. His shoulders cramped, muscles freezing just as he was slipping the shirt off. Dwalin was there, though, and pulled the cloth the rest of the way away from Thorin's head. Parts of his plain blue shirt had to be peeled off his skin, where warg teeth had slipped past the metal and the blood had soaked through his shirt. Before long his torso, back, and shoulders were bare, a cool breeze skipping across the tender skin.

"Umm . . ."

Dwalin looked over, seeing Bilbo looking pale-faced at something at Thorin's side. Shuffeling around the immobile hobbit, Dwalin say a warg tooth embedded between two of Thorin's ribs. It was small, compared to the large canines the wild wolves were most known for. It had cut cleanly through the cloth of his shirt, so it had not snagged when they were taking it off. Thorin would have noticed otherwise.

Thorin was holding up his arm, looking at the tooth with a strange expression. Dwalin gestured at his King's side.

"Gonna keep that?"

Thorin chuckled, reached for the tooth, and with a quick jerk it was out. Bilbo went very pale, and would have fallen over had Bofur not been there.

Before to long a thin wrap of bandages was coiled around Thorin's midsection. The drink Óin had given him sent Thorin into a healing sleep.

"Looks like good dreams, maybe."

Dwalin looked at the old healer, seeing a gentle smile in the dwarf's eyes. Looking back to his king, Dwalin saw that Thorin's face was relaxed. It usually became a strong, stone, unreadable expression.

"Or maybe no dreams," Dwalin said, grabbing Thorin's coat. He walked over to his brother (brother-in-all-but-blood), and covered the exposed skin of his torso.

Dwalin hoped that Thorin's peace really was renewed hope from seeing the Mountain on the horizon for the first time in years. However, it could have easily been the drink Óin gave him. Thorin had always reacted strangely to pain-easing medicine.

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Thorin felt himself being shaken awake. He raised his head to meet Óin's brown eyes. The older dwarf gestured and Thorin nodded, pushing himself away from the base of the tree trunk where he had fallen asleep. He didn't move as the healer gently poked and prodded at his back and wounded side.

"There is little chance of infection. At the most you'll be sore, I think."

Thorin snorted. "I think I can handle a little soreness."

To his surprise the usually kindly healer glared at him, before plopping down on the ground next to his king and forcing a steaming mug into Thorin's hands. The two dwarves simply sat in silence for a while, looking through the branches of the trees to the faint stars above.

"What you did was stupid. With all respect, my king."

Throin brought the mug down from his lips, a sigh raising his shoulders. "I know."

Óin turned to look at his king. For once he seemed to have heard perfectly well.

"Well, my king. We all know what that _thing_ meant. You failed to kill Azog, killer of kings and family. You failed, Thorin. And that's alright. You've done much to be pround of. Except this last stunt."

Thorin gave a small, mirthless chuckle.

"Next time think before running down the trunk of a burning tree into the mouth of a warg. Please. Those things are less than sanitary." This time Thorin laughed, then thought.

For him, it hadn't mattered that the tree was catching fire. It hadn't mattered that the orc had been mounted. It hadn't mattered that Thorin was tired, physically exhausted, and emotionally compromised. It hadn't mattered that _his own two nephews might have seen him beheaded._

The only thing that had mattered was the sneering orc with the metal arm.

Thorin swished the liquid inside the mug, long since gone lukewarm. "Do you think we have a chance, Óin?"

The healer looked at his king, seeing the pale scars and dark, shadowed eyes. Thorin had struggled, Óin knew. Leading their people to a new home, pushing himself far past his boundaries, burying most of his family before he had reached his first century; it was no wonder their King was a bit of a broken mess.

"Aye, lad. I think that as long as we live, there is hope."

Thorin looked at the healer, then they both turned to watch the stars.

And it seemed to them that they could see Home on the horizon.

_Hope, _Thorin thought.

_May it prove true to me this time._

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**_Well, sorry guys. School drains all motivation for everything. This whole thing will be done within this next week, you have my promise. _**

**_I honestly didn't know what to think of this one. Óin just kinda popped in there. _**

**_Also, I'm glad that there are people out there who take the time to read and what have you concerning my work. It means 'oodles' to me!_**

**_By the way, spoilers for the book (which has been out for I don't know how long since I don't want to deal with the math right now) in the next chapter and I will suffer with you all. Just a few more things to think through, then this story will be done._**


	6. Final Rest

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_Final Rest_

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_"Thorrrriiii-n," Dwalin said, climbing up onto his friend's bed. "Wake up!" _

_The two dwarflings had been playing all day, running on platforms and suspended streets, tiptoeing through the quiet library. They had even dared to run around Thrór's throne room chair (after making sure the weird elves weren't there, of course). The most nerve wracking moment had been when Gabilbar - their tutor - had been chasing them around the throne itself. Both of them had managed to escape._

_Now, however, Thorin had fallen asleep, one arm thrown over his face to hide the glare from a nearby candle. His small feet were tangled in the blankets, and his mouth was hanging open. Well, as far as the small mouth could stretch, at least._

_Fundin's rooms were near the royal chambers; as the captain of the royal guard it was necessary to be close to his charges. Dwalin knew the way to Thorin's room from pretty much anywhere in the Mountain. Except the library. That place was creepy when it got dark. _

_"Thorrrrrrrrrrr-in."_

_The small dark haired dwarf let out a small groan, shifting his feet. Thorin's arm shifted to reveal a single, blinking, blue eye. _

_"Wadda you want, Dwwwalin?"_

_The dwarfling smiled a gap-toothed grin. He crawled up onto Thorin's bed, pulling his friend up into a sitting position. They were both sitting across from each other, leaning towards the other as though they were in the middle of a conspiracy._

_"'Member what Gabilbar said? Tonight's the thing."_

_Thorin yawned and stretched. "What thing?"_

_"You know, the . . . the thingy." Dwalin waved his hands in circles. "Something about stars 'n stuff."_

_Recognition lit up Thorin's face. He smiled widely. "Yeah! The . . . blinking or whatever . . . thing."_

_A single glance, and both dwarflings were dashing (quietly, of course) out of Thorin's room to the first open slit carved into the Mountain they could find. In the daytime, sunlight would filter into Erebor and - while candles were still widely used - it did help with the overall lighting of the city. _

_Standing on their tiptoes and gripping the edge of the sill, the pair looked out over the surrounding area, the lights of Dale barely a flicker compared to the vibrant, twinkling stars. __The half-moon was low on the horizon, accenting the distant black of the night sky. The stars were diamond dust. It reminded the dwarflings of white gems resting on a black oak table, about to be examined by the jeweler._

_A gasp, and Thorin pointed at a streak of light schwooping through the sky. It vanished in a moment, though. Dwalin sighed. He had been unable to see it. _

_However, his disappointment was soon forgotten. It seemed to the young dwarves that the whole sky started to shiver and blink. Falling stars looked like flour scraped over the edge of a baker's table. The trails crossed and marked the dark sky with temporary light. And the strange part was the silence. The only sound was the occasional breeze making the branches of trees creak. _

_All too soon, the star-fall was over. The two dwarflings watched for a few more minutes, hoping for another glance at the wondrous lights. Nothing happened. _

_Dwalin sighed. Thorin looked over at his friend and patted his shoulder. "We should do this again, don'cha think?"_

_Dwalin looked at Thorin, brown eyes meeting blue. "It happens once a year, right?"_

_"Yeah!"_

_The two made it an annual tradition. Every year they would go to see the star-fall, watching the lights and not saying a word. As they grew older, they didn't grow out of the 'holiday,' as it were. They missed a few years, though._

_The first star-fall after Erebor was taken by Smaug. The night they burned friends and fathers and brothers after Azanulbizar was the same night as the meteor shower. The flames had lighted the sky. Even if they had been watching, they wouldn't have been able to see. _

_When Thorin's first nephew died in childbirth, and when Balin came down with a killing sickness. When Dís' husband died. _

_The last time they watched the star-fall was before leaving Ered Luin, on an insane quest to reclaim their home._

_._

_._

_._

Dwalin ran to the tents, refusing to believe the look in his brother's eyes. Mud thick with blood, iron shards, and the occasional dirtied bandages squished under his large boots. The smell of heated metal and burning flesh drifted around the medical tents, while groans and strange, wet, crunchy sounds drifted through the air like some strange music.

Dwalin didn't hear or see any of it. He was too focused on the tent at the end of the row, that was flying the royal Durin blue outside the closed flaps. Suddenly the flaps twitched, and a small figure hurled out, dashing blindly towards the edge of the healers camp. Dwalin numbly registered the curly hair of Bilbo before turning and sprinting to the tent.

He skidded to a stop just before the dark cloth, his knees strangely numb while his heart beat out a strange, stuttered, marching beat in his chest. Gandalf was sitting on a small stool, just next to the corner of the tent. His arm was held in a sling, and his staff was splattered with darkening blood. The wizard gave the dwarf a sad, little glance, before going back to lighting his dented pipe.

Dwalin took a deep breath, held it, and quickly swished into the tent.

His eyes tracked nearly everywhere before settling on the cot. The heavy tent cloth blocked out the rays of the sun, with only a small, gray light making everything visible. A snuffed out candle rested on an impromptu side table, next to a small stool that had been knocked over. A faint smell of wet iron drifted around the tent in waves.

Then, Dwalin looked at the cot.

Thorin way laying on his back, with a heavy wool blanket pulled halfway up his torso. A strange bulge showed where the end of the spear had entered his side, twisting between ribs and tearing lungs. It had been impossible to remove. Small cuts and burns flecked his face, with a gash above his eyebrow sluggishly oozing blood. His shoulder had been torn from it's socket, and had yet to be pushed back in place. Blood had dried at the corners of his mouth and under his nose. The proud mane of black and silver had become matted with sweat and blood, not all of it his own. Thorin's hands were resting at his sides, half curled, mangled fingers limp against the wool.

Dwalin noticed the loud silence, then.

He staggered over to his friend - _his king, brother, shield sibling_ - and watched Thorin's chest like a hawk. It never moved.

Dwalin refused to believe it at first. Throin had been fighting not hours beforehand, breathing, thinking, _even smiling_. The gold-sickness had given him up, taking away that strange, fevered look from those cold, blue eyes. Thorin had laughed, joyous at the prospect of battle, at getting another chance at Azog.

_And now he was gone._

Dwalin's knees gave out, his forearms coming up to rest on the edge of the bed as the rest of him sunk to the ground.

Thorin was still warm, his fingers moving easily as Dwalin grasped at his hands and pulled them to his face. The limp didgets scraped against the larger dwarf's forehead, torn fingernails leaving pale marks.

Then, Dwalin lost control.

His shoulders heaved as he struggled to draw breath._ It was not supposed to be this way._

He had to carry the bodies of Fíli and Kíli not moments beforehand, wondering how to tell Thorin while his heart stuttered and died in his chest. Then Balin, good brother he was, came with his eyes filled with, not tears, but such suffering Dwalin had not seen since Azanulbizar.

Dry gasps filled the otherwise silent room, seeming loud in Dwalin's ears. He would not cry, not yet. He had to wait for Dís.

He never looked at Thorin's face, he didn't see the peace, the stillness. His eyes were closed. Never again would Thorin's cold blue eyes grace the world with it's gaze.

"Brother."

Balin had come from nowhere, slipping through the tent door silently. The sun had gone down some time ago, staining the world a dark brown and gray. There were some rejoicing parties, groups of men, dwarrow, elves, joined by the treads of battle, death, and survival. They spared some thought for those that were gone. Some just sat and stared at nothing. Some, like Bilbo and the rest of the Company, were weeping or going horribly numb.

And in a blue tent, brothers held each other so as not to fall apart. The one they mourned for met family long gone in white-and-golden marble halls.

Then, somewhere above the clouds of war and death and sorrow, a star fell.

_._

_._

_._

**_I really struggled deciding for the viewpoint for this last chapter. Dwalin, though. Had to be him. This could have easily been two chapters, but the memory at the beginning I felt was necessary._**

**_On another note, I am so sorry, guys. I really have no excuse save for apathy. Last year at high school, and I'm drowning in stuff._**

**_Well! That was my first multi-chapter thing. Glad there were people who enjoyed it._**

**_Thanks to everyone!_**


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